


Against the Clock

by TheWanderingAvarian



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Deal with a Devil, Gen, One Shot, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26617561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWanderingAvarian/pseuds/TheWanderingAvarian
Summary: “Meaning that taking your power will kill me?”That is so.“And if I don’t?”Your world will surely die.***What if there was a higher cost to gaining the power to defeat Yaldabaoth? In which Arsene is a friendly, albeit deadly ally.
Relationships: Amamiya Ren & Arsene (Persona Series), Arsene & Kurusu Akira, Arsene & Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 8
Kudos: 150





	Against the Clock

Every night for as long as he could remember, Akira had had the same dream.

He was sitting on a train. It was dark. There was no one else there. 

It sped down the tracks, the carriage rattling, eerie lights dancing outside, flickering in and out of view. It was cold. His fingers shivered. 

The rattling got louder and louder, so loud he thought the train might explode—then it emerged. The light went blue. The train slowed down. 

As it shuddered to a halt, he got to his feet. This was his stop. 

He stumbled out of the carriage and onto a wide platform—but not a train platform. A great outcropping of rock, at the end of which was a huge black door, flecked with veins of glowing red stone. The light within the rock pulsed as he drew closer. The door swirled open. 

A vast cavern expanded beyond. He wandered through, drew closer to the cliff's edge, closer to whatever was waiting below. The blue light seemed to sing to him, to pull him to the edge, to gaze into the depths. He was only a few steps away...

Then he’d wake up. 

It was the same every time, though as he’d grown older he’d seen more and more of it. When he was little, the train wouldn’t stop at all. It was only in his teenage years the door had opened. And now—now he was so close—he was sure it wouldn’t be much longer before he reached the edge. Saw what was awaiting him. 

Or so he’d thought. Because right now he was sure he was going to die. 

The sharp silver tips of the knights’ spears dug into the skin of his neck. The grotesque, mutated form of that man—Kamoshida—leered at him with vile yellow eyes. 

This couldn’t be the end—there was something here waiting for him, he was sure of it. He had so much still to do in this world. This man—this _creature_ —couldn’t stop him. _Wouldn’t_ stop him. Would regret the day he thought that he could try and kill someone in front of Akira and get away with it. 

Akira dimly heard the words, “Execute him!” over the blood pounding in his ears, and something about hearing them, about the confirmation that he was doomed, snapped a chain in his soul. The air grew still. 

And quite suddenly he wasn’t in that dank prison at all. He wasn’t sure where he was. 

_We meet at last, my little villain._ A voice seemed to echo in his ears. _Long have I awaited this day._

“Who are you?” asked Akira, aware of the hoarseness of his voice, of the pain still pounding in his head. 

_I am thou,_ it whispered, _and thou art I._

And bit by bit a hand manifested on his chest, right over where his heart should be; a huge, red, clawed hand. Then Akira saw it. A being, many times his own size, tall and jagged, a blood-red coat flapping behind him, his face a black swirling void, his eyes fiery red slits. 

“You’re me?” he asked. 

It seemed hard to credit, that this thing, this creature could be a part of him. And yet...it couldn’t be anything else either. It was as though he’d always known it was there, lurking somewhere in the depths of his soul. And now, at last, he could see it clearly. 

_We have been chosen, you and I,_ the creature rumbled. _Chosen for a great destiny. But you know that, don’t you?_

“That’s what Igor said,” said Akira, thinking about that strange room, which reminded him so much of the train. 

_Igor says a lot of things. But his nonsense about rehabilitation is merely a distraction, for your true fate is far greater than that._

“Ruin...” muttered Akira.

_Yes._

It’d been stuck in his head since he’d first heard Igor say the word. Ruin. It meant so much more than that. But what exactly?

_The time has come for a contract to be forged,_ said the demon, for that was the only word Akira could think of to describe him. _You shall know all._

With one fluid motion the demon stepped away from Akira and swept his hand in a wide circular arc in front of them. In the outline a spectral circle began to form, growing sharper and clearer the longer Akira looked at it. Then he realised what it was. A clock. 

Its hands were stuck at midnight.

“What’s this supposed to mean?”

_This is the time you have left until your world is destroyed._

Akira blinked. 

“...Destroyed?”

_Yes._

“But how—why—”

_A malevolent God forged of mankind’s own woes seeks to destroy life as you know it. Even now he exerts his influence over the world of men, and if left unchallenged, he will surely win. It is your task to avert this._

A malevolent God? Did such things exist? But his dreams, and this demon...

_You know in your heart the truth of my words._

He did, but he wasn’t quite sure he understood them yet.

“And this clock...” he said quietly, “it’s more than just the end of the world, isn’t it?”

The demon’s face warped, and though it was hard to tell, Akira thought he was smiling. 

_Correct. After all, you will need my power to help you achieve this goal._

“The contract, right?”

_Indeed._ The demon extended a claw to the clock. _This is also the time that you have remaining, should you accept my deal. _

Ah. So it was like that then. 

“Meaning that taking your power will kill me?”

_That is so._

“And if I don’t?”

_Your world will surely die._

What a decision. If it could be called that. His life for all the world, his life for the lives everyone he’d ever known—everyone he ever would. His life for the very fate of humanity. 

The demon held out a hand. 

_What do you say, Akira? Do you accept the deal?_

This demon was a part of his soul—he knew things Akira had always known—spoke in a voice Akira knew to be a dark mirror of his own. He offered his hand as though they were making a deal, as though Akira could possibly refuse it.

As though he would refuse the calling he’d felt pulling him inevitably forwards for as long as he could remember. 

Akira placed his hand in the demon’s palm, his own slender fingers looking very small compared to its inhuman, red claws. 

“I accept,” he whispered. 

And the world went white. 

* * *

**12:05:00**

It was only on his way back home that day that Akira realised his left hand was still aching. It had been aching ever since they left the Metaverse, though all the other injuries they’d sustained there didn’t seem to last in the real world. 

As he stepped out of the station at Yongen-Jaya, he lifted his sleeve to get a better look. 

He recoiled instinctively.

Over his wrist, where a watch would usually sit, there were now twelve small white scars arranged in a circle, like the markings on a clock. He curiously ran a finger over them, though they ached to touch. Little circular indents, burnt into his flesh. A physical manifestation of the deal he’d made. 

_The countdown has begun,_ Arsène whispered at the edges of his hearing. _Use your time wisely._

Akira walked back to the café. There seemed to be a weight on his back. 

* * *

**13:00:00**

It was Monday 25th of April. They’d done it. Kamoshida’s Treasure was stolen, his Shadow destroyed and their ploy successful. He’d been so caught up in the excitement of the thing that he didn’t notice the burning until it was so sharp he thought he’d throw up. 

“Are you okay, dude?” asked Ryuji, staring at him with concern.

“Fine,” he said, struggling to keep his voice level. “Just, give me a moment to check something, alright?” 

He almost ran off the roof, ducking into one of the student bathrooms and into a stall, locking the door tightly behind him. He wrenched up the sleeve of his uniform, and bit down hard on his tongue to keep from yelling. 

Where once there had been twelve marks on his wrist, there were now only eleven, and they were red and bloodied, grooves cut deep into his flesh. 

_Do not panic,_ Arsène whispered, his claws ghostly on Akira’s shoulder. _The pain will fade._

“It’s _bleeding!”_ Akira hissed under his breath, praying no one else was in the bathroom to hear. 

_That too will pass. Look._

Akira looked again, and to his dismay, Arsène was right. Already the cuts were beginning to scab over, and soon the bloody spectacle was replaced by eleven red, smarting scars again. 

“Is that going to happen every time?” he whispered.

_Yes. It is unfortunate, but your fate was never a pleasant one._

He took a deep shuddering breath, then examined his scars more closely. The one that had disappeared was in the top right corner. One o’clock. Eleven hours left. However long an hour was meant to be. 

He pulled down his sleeve, then left the stall and splashed some water on his face, trying to lessen his terrifying pallor. He stared at his reflection. The boy staring back looked wretched. 

Oh well. No rest for the wicked. 

* * *

**18:00:00**

One by one his hours burnt away, his time trickling out, his deadline gradually approaching. So far it had been about one a month, and he judged that the ‘ruin’ both Arsène and Igor kept badgering him about would happen in about March next year. 

Or so he’d thought. 

They were at the beach, the sun shining down, the world seeming a little less oppressive than usual. Akira was always aware he was running out of time, but for most of the day he’d been able to ignore the creeping sensation that his life was draining out of him. That was, until now. 

He was wearing wrist-guards—he’d had to, to hide the scars, and ignored everyone’s persistent teasing about it. For a good five minutes he assumed that the slight burning sensation in his left wrist was just the heat finally getting to him. After all, he’d already burnt off an hour this month; he wouldn’t get another until September. It was fine. 

Until it wasn’t. 

In an instant, so quickly he almost didn't realise what was happening, the mild sting in his wrist burst into an explosion of pain, and he recognised it for what it was.

He leapt to his feet, his heart pounding in his ears, and rushed for the nearest secluded area he could spot—the changing rooms. He clattered inside, feet shaking, arms shaking, and ducked into a stall, out of sight of anyone around. 

His chest seemed to be trying to turn itself inside out, the burning leaping up his arms and through his ribs, a cacophony of screeching pain echoing through his bones. Blood seeped down his arm from under his wrist guard, a horrible warm sensation on his skin. He couldn’t stop shaking. 

_Breathe deeply._

He did—or tried to anyway. It was hard to focus on breathing when everything hurt so much. 

It must have been twenty breaths—maybe even thirty—before the pain subsided, and he was left cold and shivering on the ground. He needed to check his wrist, but the idea of what lay beneath his wrist guards made him feel sick. 

_Take your time._

He took another deep breath. Then another. It was over now. 

He shoved himself upright, slumping against the wall of the cubicle, still shivering. A cursory look at his left arm told him he looked like a zombie—his skin grey and clammy. Not to mention the blood—though it was rapidly drying to his skin. 

The last few ‘hours’ had been getting steadily worse, but nothing like this. Why had it been so intense this time? 

_It seems external forces are accelerating your fate,_ said Arsène, his voice echoing in Akira’s ears. _Be very careful, little one. I have a feeling this enemy of yours is not to be trifled with._

Akira pulled off his wrist guard and examined the clock. Only six hours left now. He was halfway to destruction. 

“I think you may be right,” he muttered. 

“Akira?”

Akira sprang back, his head colliding with the back of the stall. “Agh!”

“Akira, are you okay?” 

It was Morgana’s voice. He must have noticed him running off. 

“I’m fine,” he said, just loud enough for Morgana to hear. “You just shocked me a little, that’s all.”

“Why did you run off? The others are looking for you.”

“I think I must have gotten overheated,” said Akira, noticing for the first time he’d brought his bottled water with him. What a relief—now he could wash off the blood without anyone noticing. “I just felt a bit light-headed and decided to sit down in the dark. I’ll be out in a minute.”

“O-oh, okay,” said Morgana. “I’ll go and tell them.”

“You do that,” muttered Akira, as he heard Morgana padding away.

He reached for his water bottle. 

_They’ll work it out eventually, you know._

“I know.”

But what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

* * *

**21:00:00**

Of course it would happen _now._

He knew this pain, this fire burning within. He needed to leave. 

“So we’ll do it on the 18th,” Makoto was saying.

“Akira?” Akechi’s red eyes bored into him, like a cat watching an escaping mouse. “Is something wrong?”

“Just need to go to the bathroom.” Fire in his wrist. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

He didn’t run downstairs—that would only alert suspicion—so he padded carefully down to the bathroom, creeping inside with no one the wiser. Sojiro was out. 

He pulled up his sleeve, tore off the bandages wrapped around his wrist, just in time to see the ninth scar glow blistering white, then vanish, the remaining three growing bloody—pain spiking down his arms, through to his heart. 

It was going too quickly—only three hours left until destruction—last month had been two—how many did he have left now? Was his expiry date the 18th of November? 

Sharp needles wracked through his chest, and he coughed compulsively, something rising in his throat, metallic on his tongue. He coughed and coughed and coughed, coughed until his lungs were on fire, until his ribs seemed about to break. The sink was stained with vivid red. His eyes rose to his reflection. A ghostly face stared at him, his skin white, his lips red, blood still oozing from the corner of his mouth. The shadows under his eyes were dark enough to blacken the sun. 

He turned on the tap, placing his trembling wrist beneath, letting the water purge the unsightly red away. Clean again. 

He pulled a bandage out of his pocket, wrapped it around his wrist, around his remaining three hours. He wiped away the blood at the corner of his mouth with the toilet paper, then flushed it away. 

The boy in the mirror still looked sick—but when didn’t he? After all, he was going to die. 

_Do not be so hasty to meet your end. After all, you know now exactly when he intends to kill you._

“Think he will?”

_That is entirely up to you._

He looked at his reflection, at the sickness lurking behind his eyes, now fully visible on his face. Did Akechi sense that weakness? Was that why he’d chosen now to act? He had so little time left...

_I trust you, Akira._

But of course, he had no time for doubt. 

* * *

**23:55:00**

He was sitting on a train. The tracks rattled, ran past him relentlessly, the lights outside flaring and vanishing, winking in and out of sight. 

He was sitting on a train. It was five minutes to midnight. It would be his stop soon. 

He was sitting on a train...

Blue light shone in through the windows—train windows—prison windows? 

The train came to a stop.

He walked out. It was five minutes to midnight. It was his stop. 

The door opened for him, and a blue light called him to the edge of a cliff inside a deep cavern, called him to look at what was lying below. He walked to the edge. 

And he _saw._

* * *

He woke from his dream like waking for the last time. It _was_ the last time. It was the 24th of December. It was the day he was going to die. 

He’d seen it, seen it at last. What he’d always known lay waiting for him in the bowels of the earth. His destiny. His nemesis. The God that had given him life, the God that would bring him death. He was waiting. He’d been waiting so long...

He got out his phone.

**> We’re going to Mementos.**

* * *

**23:59:55**

His heartbeat drowned out the rush of air on top of the prison of souls. The wind could not hurt him. Nothing could hurt him. 

Everyone else was unconscious—lost in the void. But he was not.

There was a burning sensation in his wrist. 

Before him, outlined in the stars around Yaldaboath’s head, a clock ticked. 

_Five seconds to midnight._

Akira pulled out a gun. 

_Four._

A laugh echoed across the sky. From him? From it? 

_Three._

His body burned.

_Two._

He was going to die.

_One._

**…**

It was midnight. The train burned somewhere below, trapped in the depths of that hopeless prison. He was standing on top of the world, facing the God who had created him to die, watching a smoking hole form in the centre of its head. 

It was midnight. 

He was free.


End file.
